


Rumpled

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Longitudinal Cohort [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I was also watching a documentaty on otters the other day, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Maybe A Little Plot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock is insecure, Sherlock's a mess, They love each other so much, They're a mess, Top John, bit of angst, proposal, proposal-ish, seriously, sex sheets, talk of switchlock, when have i ever wrote anything but johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:58:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5756323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then, halfway through a documentary on river otters that neither of them was paying attention to--how could John, with a gangly, limp consulting detective practically purring in his lap?--Sherlock suddenly bolted upright, looked at John with a perplexed expression and a crinkle above his nose, and blurted, “Marry me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rumpled

**Author's Note:**

> It's not really and engagement fic. Not really at all.
> 
> As usual, not beta'd or Brit-picked, because I am An Island and also a lazy piece of shit.
> 
> Also, SHAMELESS PROMOTION: follow me on tumblr if you are so inclined. [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

John pulls his jumper over his head and watches as Sherlock crawls into the freshly made bed, rolling in the sheets to make a fairly efficient linen-burrito. He lays his wet head on the pillow, curls drying every which way, and blinks owlishly up at John. One shoulder, pink from the scalding water of the shower, pokes above the soft cotton. His left hand is tucked under his chin, the simple silver band now adorning his finger glinting in the morning sunlight. His lips are still slightly swollen and his face has the distinct look of beard burn on it. And he’s watching John get dressed with the same single-minded focus he has whilst examining a particularly fascinating slime mold or when he watches Molly slice into a body of indeterminable demise. He’s enchanting.

John straightens his shirt collar over his jumper and smiles down at the vision in front of him: Sherlock, warm and pink and nude, and still, perhaps more still than John has ever seen him, exuding a heady combination of debauchery and guilelessness that makes John’s belly swoop. He may not be actively trying to seduce him, but Goddamn, John’s jeans are suddenly a bit tighter. He honestly has no idea idea how his cock has anything left in it, after three days.

Three wonderful, rather unexpected days. Friday had started like any other; John exhausted and grumpy from work, Sherlock working himself into a sulk after having not had a decent case since the week before. John had made dinner--the thing with the peas--and set everything out on the coffee table before interrupting Sherlock mid-stomp and demanding, “You. SIT.” 

Once he was down, it was remarkably easy to calm The Great Brain; John has become quite adept at it. One hand on his knee and the other stroking through curls and kneading his scalp reduced Sherlock to a warm, pliable tangle of limbs in no time flat. The novelty of having that ability will never pass for John; after spending so many years viewing Sherlock as something other-wordly, above lowly mortals like John, and completely untouchable, John views being able to bring him back to earth and calm his whirring mind as a precious gift and welcome responsibility. Sherlock is his, and Sherlock is his to take care of. In return, Sherlock allows John to take care of him, fulfilling his own desires for caretaking and being needed. It works, _they_ work, and even on boring Fridays when John is grumpy and Sherlock is stomping around like a spoiled toddler they can bask in being the singular reason for being for the other.

Then, halfway through a documentary on river otters that neither of them was paying attention to--how could John, with a gangly, limp consulting detective practically purring in his lap?--Sherlock suddenly bolted upright, looked at John with a perplexed expression and a crinkle above his nose, and blurted, “Marry me.”

Sherlock had to slap John on the back for almost two straight minutes as he coughed up his mouthful of beer, and then John had to dart up the stairs without a word to grab the small black box he’d stashed in his old room until the right opportunity came along, bursting back into the sitting room to shove it into Sherlock’s shaking hands and scolding him more harshly than he meant to, “You ruined it, you selfish prick!” Then they’d locked themselves in the fortress of 221B Baker Street, surviving off take away, some celebratory cake and a lasagna from Mrs. Hudson (she was the only one they’d told so far), and each other. They didn’t need anything else. They never would.

John had reluctantly pulled himself from Sherlock’s grip the morning of their fourth day as fiancés, but now as he adjusts the flies of his jeans, he wishes he’d just stayed put and skived off work.

“You’re messing up my clean sheets.”

“You didn’t need to change them,” Sherlock blinks up at John and rocks a bit, twisting them tighter around his thin frame. One long foot sticks out under the edge, his toes curling adorably into the fine high-count cotton. His skin practically glows against the dark fabric, morning sunlight slanting through the curtains.

“Yes, I did. They were disgusting,” John reaches down and runs a fingertip up the underside of Sherlock’s foot. He immediately jerks it back under the sheets, but his eyes crinkle in delight as he watches John step away to pick grab his watch. “And now, you are messing them up again.”

“You could mess them up with me.”

“I have to go to work, Sherlock.”

“No, you don’t, John. We don’t need the money,” Sherlock lifts his head a bit and gives him his _I’m in love with an idiot_ look. “Don’t be obtuse.” He flops back down and his face softens again, but his eyes remain a bit tight. “Stay.”

“Sherlock…” John puts his hands on his hips, squaring his shoulders and trying his best to respond with an _I’m trying to be an adult_ look. It’s a look John has carefully honed as the _de facto_ adult in their relationship, even before. The truth is, Sherlock does look enticing, much more enticing than the idea of spending a day at the surgery, yelling at mothers who refuse to give their children the needed jabs and diagnosing hernias and removing pencil erasers from toddlers’ noses. John always desires Sherlock over anything else in his life. That will never change. 

He could just ring Sarah, explain the situation. She’d understand; not only does she understand their lifestyle, but she understands Sherlock and John, the _we_ of them, and she’d understand how momentous their being affianced is. He could. But he shouldn’t. Who knows when he’ll need to call in a true favor, and Sarah had already been more than gracious in getting him the position in the aftermath of his disastrous marriage, while John was trying to nurture the new, fragile shift in Their Relationship _and_ try and pick up the pieces of almost three years of heartbreak and poor decisions. She deserves a more reliable employee. But God, he wants to, he wants to rip off his clothes and eschew responsibility and make a mess of the bed again. “It’s not about the money…”

“John…” Sherlock pushes himself up on his hands and crawls to the edge of the bed, the sheet pulling away to reveal the pale, marred skin of his back and just the very top of his plush bottom. He pushes his nose into John’s belly then tips his head up, his bony chin pushing into John’s sternum. Long fingers pulls at the soft wool of John’s jumper. “Please stay.”

Something in Sherlock’s eyes tugs in John’s belly. On the surface they’re playful, puppy-dog eyes imploring him to crawl back into bed. But behind that, there’s a cloudiness that only John would ever be able to see. Something that isn’t a game. Sherlock truly wants him to stay, and not just for a another shag, although John knows that’s where it will inevitably end. He lifts his hand to card through damp curls and leans down so his forehead is pressed against Sherlock’s. “You’re ridiculous…”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches; he knows he’s won even if John hasn’t admitted it yet. His face morphs into something larkish and wickedly sexy. “When you were getting dressed…” He purrs, breath minty and warm against John’s face.

“And changing the sheets…” John inhales deeply. Sherlock smells lovely: fresh and clean, lemongrass and honey from his shampoo with a hint of smoky musk. It’s comforting, grounding. From that very first day, when Sherlock rushed passed him in a whirlwind of curls and coat to follow Lestrade to a crime scene, the scent of Sherlock has meant _home._

“Yes, and pointlessly changing the sheets,” he nudges his nose into John’s chin, brushing it back and forth against three-day stubble John didn’t bother to shave. “I… _prepared_ myself,” he blushes and lowers his eyes, burying his face in John’s jumper. With John’s guidance Sherlock has developed into a remarkably sexual creature, but while he now knows that his transport can be used as an efficient way to communicate with John and is open with his acts--brazen even--he is still adorably shy about voicing things. John feels his jeans grow tighter.

“Oh…” He tries to huff a shaky laugh. “That confident, were you?” Sherlock tilts his head back up and smiles wickedly. 

“Mmmm…” he purrs, then pulls away and flops on his side, tossing away the sheets to expose his backside. “See?” One large hand grabs a plump buttock and he pulls, exposing himself. His pink hole is pinker than usual, a bit inflamed from three days of solid use. It gapes slightly, just a bit looser than it should be, and his cleft glistens with lube. John’s mouth fills with saliva.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” he clears his throat. His head swims with arousal, his palms prickling. How Sherlock can be both demure and outright lewd, his ears burning pink above his curls, John will never know, but it’s absolutely maddening. His mind is made up before his brain is able to catch up with his cock. “You’re not sore?” He feels should at least ask, even if he’s already reaching for the button of his jeans.

“Nnnnn-o...in fact, I’m quite ready,” Sherlock’s large hand massages his arse cheek, pushing down and pulling himself open again. Plump flesh presses together then separates slowly. John watches, mesmerized, as the pink ring of muscle twitches and flutters as it’s exposed again. Goosepimples rise on Sherlock’s forearm. John’s jeans hit the floor, the belt clattering loudly.

“Fuck,” John steps out of his jeans, then tugs off his pants, shuddering as the cotton catches on his now very interested cock. He takes himself in hand and strokes, once, frankly surprised at how sensitive he still is after three days of fairly consistent shagging. “You are a menace, love.” 

“You love it…” Sherlock tucks his knees up a bit, exposing his perineum and the very back of his scrotum. His bollocks are already heavy and full.

“Well, I am marrying you…” John growls as he crawls onto the bed. Sherlock shivers slightly at his words and squeezes his buttock. John reaches under one pillow to grab the bottle of lube as he shifts up behind Sherlock on his side. He squeezes a bit out and quickly slicks his cock, exhaling hard through his teeth as he lines himself up. His back muscles pull and the ache in his own arse throbs a bit as he pushes forward and enters him without preamble, but Sherlock is so ready for him he slides in easily to the hilt, enveloped by slick, hot, pulsing flesh. 

Sherlock exhales hard, the ghost of John’s name on his lips, but he doesn’t tense or pull away like both of them usually do in those first, almost overwhelming moments of penetration. In fact, he seems to relax, long, lithe body sinking into the mattress and newly rumpled sheets.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John curls one arm around Sherlock’s ribcage, fitting his thumb in the small dip of his bullet scar and pulling him back against his chest. He’s still wearing his jumper. John’s other hand--slick with lube--reaches down between Sherlock’s tucked-together thighs to grasp his hot, hard cock. Sherlock grunts and twitches as John thumbs the exposed tip. “Alright?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock sighs, the surly word softened by a breathy sigh. He rocks his hips back, fitting his bottom in the curve of John’s thighs. He reaches back to palm John’s right buttock, long fingers spanning entirely across the globe of muscle. “John…”

“Shhhh…” John murmurs against Sherlock’s neck. He nips soft skin lightly. “Right here, love.” He tightens his grip on Sherlock’s chest and rolls his hips forward; he’s met with a strangled gasp and a quiver around his cock. John has a feeling neither of them will last very long; Sherlock is already leaking in his hand and the pull of John’s sore muscles mingled with the lush, snug heat around his penis causes the fire in his core to grow hot rather quickly. Sherlock tucks his knees tighter and pushes back to meet John’s short measured movements; he isn’t thrusting so much as rocking them together, angling down a bit so the tip of his cock will catch on Sherlock’s prostate while he grinds. It’s sublime, and far too good in John’s estimation for men of their age who just shagged their way through three days.

Sherlock’s heart starts to hammer against his ribs and John’s hand. His breath is coming in gasps and moans into the empty space in front of him, alternatively deep rumbling purrs and high-pitched squeaks interspersed with John’s name. John buries his face in curls that were barely dried and are becoming wet again, hungrily inhaling the scent of clean sweat and sex and _Sherlock_. His eyes burn a bit as they always do when they’re like this, entwined together, as the reality that this is real and Sherlock is here and his washes over him. John doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

“Fuck, Sherlock!” John jerks when expectedly, long fingers move from his arse to dip between the separation of flesh. A dry fingertip presses against his opening, popping past his tender external sphincter and in up to the first knuckle. “Ohhh.” It burns. It’s glorious. “That’s perfect, love.” Sherlock only grunts, arching his neck and straining to push his finger deeper, the awkward angle pulling painfully on John’s ring of muscle.

The pleasure starts to burn in John’s fingertips and toes, spreading up through his limbs to settle in his groin, growing sharper and hotter as he rolls his hips faster. Every push and pull in Sherlock’s body pushes him back on his finger, just the right mix of pleasure and discomfort to cause sparks to flash behind John’s eyelids. Sherlock’s cock grows heavier in his hand as he strokes, and he suddenly stiffens as John presses his thumb into his frenulum. Sherlock’s back arches a bit; John feels the tell-tale clench and ripple around his cock, and hot fluid starts to spill over his fingers. Sherlock gasps as he starts to climax, then tries to double-over and curl in on himself as he always does during the throes of orgasm, a defensive reaction to being so bared and swept away by sensation. John tightens his grip on his chest and pulls back, keeping him straight and open, overcome with a fierce possessiveness while Sherlock shudders against him. _Mine_. _I gave you this pleasure, and your pleasure is mine, and no one else will ever have you this way._

The grasping of Sherlock’s body around him pulls John right to the edge. He hears his name once, a keening, gasping cry before the heat explodes in a burst of white light. His orgasm is short but intense, his bollocks tightening and his arse fluttering painfully around Sherlock’s finger while he empties himself into Sherlock’s body. Then it’s over, John’s mind wiped blank by a haze of endorphins, his hips still stuttering forward to rock through the aftershocks, his hand still gently palming Sherlock’s softening penis. Sherlock’s arm goes limp and his finger slips to roughly out of John’s sore hole. John’s limbs feel like jelly, and he is entirely too hot in his button-down and jumper, but he lets himself sink into the mattress, enjoying the sensation of Sherlock continuing to twitch around his now over-sensitive cock. He could stay where he is forever. Fuck the surgery. Fuck everything else that isn’t him and Sherlock in their bed. In these moments, post-climax, John’s mind always runs away with fantasies of running away together, barricading themselves in a remote fortress somewhere, where instead of three days of isolation they could have a lifetime. 

John is brought back to himself when Sherlock reaches for the hand still on his chest, squeezing it in a death-grip. He is able to curl in on himself now that John isn’t holding him back anymore; he pulls John’s other hand off his cock, sticky with semen, wrapping it around his waist and holding it in place. John’s softening penis slips out of him with an indelicate *squelch* as he shifts his legs, driving his calf between John’s and hooking his foot around his ankle. He shudders once but doesn’t relax into John’s embrace. His body is bowstring taut, all his muscles tense, not unlike he was before John sank inside him.

John nuzzles into Sherlock’s sweaty shoulder, then kisses a dark burn scar on his scapula. “Alright, love?” He murmurs gently. “Sore?” John knows he’s not tense because he’s sore.

“No. Yes. I mean...I’m fine,” Sherlock sighs but relaxes a fraction in John’s arms. He doesn’t sound overly assured of himself.

“Mmmm...you sure?” John gently kisses behind Sherlock’s ear and tightens his grip around Sherlock’s bony chest.

“Yes,” Sherlock tightens his fingers around John’s. He doesn’t say anything more for a few moments, until John shifts up a bit to hook his chin over Sherlock’s bare shoulder. “Thank you for staying,” he mumbles.

“Heh. You know I have never been able to tell you ‘no,’” John chuckles lightly, and kisses his warm cheek. “You knew you’d won before you even started,” he teases.

Sherlock doesn’t answer. His heart continues to beat wildly under their joined hands, frantically pounding against his rib cage. He is still tense. John has never been the most perceptive of men, but he knows Sherlock’s two classic reactions to an orgasm: either he turns into a puddle of loose limbs and immediately doses off, or jumps off in a sudden burst of energy, leaving John on whatever surface they defiled to recover alone. It’s tried and true, and this is neither of these.

“Sherlock, love.” The question is obvious.

Sherlock doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his voice is gruff. “It’s nothing, John. Not really…” he swallows hard. “I just, wanted you to stay home...and. Well. You know sometimes I get caught…and, it’s...it’s hard sometimes to--to tell...”

A lightbulb goes off in John’s head. Neither of them is particularly perceptive at parsing out what the other is feeling, but he _is_ learning: since having his eyes truly opened all those months ago, John has learned to listen to the things Sherlock _doesn’t_ say, the fears and insecurities he is hesitant to voice out loud, as if doing so can will them into reality. The fear that none of this is real, that every happy moment is a dream, or a hallucination, and that when Sherlock wakes he’ll be alone still, in 221B, or in Serbia, and John will be somewhere else. Usually, when Sherlock stops and stares for a moment too long at the second toothbrush in the bathroom, or bolts out of a light sleep on the sofa and eyes John in his chair as if he’s surprised he’s there, John confronts the insecurities with a kiss and a soft smile, but this time he steals his resolve and decides to address it, out-loud. 

John keeps his reassurance short and direct. “This isn’t a dream, Sherlock.” To emphasize, he untangles their hands and strokes over the ring on Sherlock’s finger. “It’s real, I promise. And yes, eventually we’ll have to reenter the world. But we can always come back.”

“Alright.”

“Always, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s body finally starts to unravel in John’s embrace. “Always, John.” He exhales long and hard, as if he’d been afraid to truly breathe. John can feel him sink into his arms and the mattress. This is much better. John kisses his cheek again and nuzzles closer, letting their limbs settle together like an intricate, fleshy puzzle piece. 

“Your jumper is scratchy,” Sherlock rumbles after several content minutes. He’s fully relaxed now, limp and pliant against John. John had thought he’d perhaps fallen asleep.

“It’s also very hot,” John chuckles.

“Well, you should take it off, John.” Sherlock’s arch tone has returned, but it’s teasing and without malice.

“I wasn’t planning on working up a sweat, you prick,” John nips a bit too hard at Sherlock’s earlobe and he jumps. “Just as well. We’ll need another shower.’’

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock grunts. John is unsure if he’s assenting or dissenting. With Sherlock, it could be either, or both.

“And new linens again.”

“They’re better this way.”

“They’re disgusting. I’d like to spend some time in a clean bed, Sherlock.”

“Hrmph. It’s only sweat and semen, John.”

“You’re repulsive. And I’m usually the one who ends up lying in it. Although I suppose I should be used to it by now.” John pulls his hand off Sherlock’s chest and brings it to his head, pressing his palm protectively against his damp forehead for a moment. He nudges Sherlock’s face around, his bicep fitting under his neck. “Hey.”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open to look at him. He looks angelic and debauched at the same time; his cheeks are still flushed, his eyes still slightly glassy and his curls a sweaty, haphazard mess. He’s as rumpled as the sheets around them. Sherlock smiles gently, that genuine, soft smile that is only for John, and John’s chest aches with how much he loves him. Not only in that moment but all their moments together.

“I love you.”

Sherlock’s smile deepens, bright like the sun. His eyes crinkle; he raises his head for a kiss and John obliges. He could never say no.


End file.
